


batten down the hatches

by betony



Category: Heist Society Series - Ally Carter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4701755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I'm the guy who happened to be home the night Kat came to steal a Monet,” says Hale. He does not add, <i> I’m the guy who’s only alive right now because I did.</i><br/>(Or: the Heist Society/Batman fusion no one really needed in their life.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	batten down the hatches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperclipbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/gifts).



“I'm the guy who happened to be home the night Kat came to steal a Monet,” says Hale. He does not add, _I’m the guy who’s only alive right now because I did._

* * *

The Hale shooting is one of the unsolved tragedies that haunts the city. Three days after an anonymous thief disappeared into the night without a painting and with a new partner in crime, the Hales senior, having chosen to attend the opera _en masse_ , found themselves on the wrong side of a mugger’s gun. 

W.W.Hale the Fifth—the only, from now onwards—found himself strangely resigned. His parents had hardly been more than shadowy extras in the background of his life. The only Hale he missed, with a longing that surprised even him, was his grandmother; and even that he could have endured until the police, having recalled him from his nascent criminal career, subjected him to endless descriptions of how she died with dignity, the pearls from her necklace clattering to the sidewalk in a staccato accompaniment to that last fatal gunshot. 

They gave him the pearls, cleaned of blood. Somehow that made all the difference. 

In another life, Hale reckons he might have made a thief of some renown at Katerina Bishop’s side. It’s too bad that this one needs him to do something different with it. 

* * *

It’s fifteen years before trouble finds him, _trouble_ in this case referring to a fall of thick hair, lipstick almost one shade too bright, and legs that go on forever. Hale smiles despite himself. 

“Hello, Gabrielle,” he says, and the woman before him pouts. 

“It’s the Comtessa di Montefeltro, actually,” she drawls, “but you, darling, can call me Gaby.” 

She profers her hand with dignity, and with equal grace Hale kisses the air above it before taking the liberty of tucking her arm in his and strolling around the ballroom. “What are you doing here, Gabrielle?” he murmurs through his grin. “Monte Carlo not keeping you busy enough?” 

”You can only run the same old cons so many times,” Gabrielle replies with a shrug, her voice now clear and amused instead of husky and flirtatious. “I thought I’d see the rest of the world.” 

”I’d believe it if it didn’t come from a Bishop,” Hale says wryly and stops so abruptly Gabrielle would stumble if he didn’t reach out a hand to catch her. “What are you really doing here?” 

You can only throw a criminal off her game for so long. Gabrielle beams at him. “That’s not what you meant to ask,” she taunts. God, he hates that cheshire-cat smile of hers! “You really want to ask me: where’s Kat?” 

* * *

The worst part of it? She’s right. 

* * *

Hale turned his back on Kat Bishop and her world the night his family died. That does not mean that is the last time he sees her. On his twenty-first birthday, he walks back to his room from the party the board of trustees threw for him. Fortunately all he takes off is his tie before he makes out the dark silhouette against the window, and Kat comes forward, as brilliant and beautiful and _Bishop_ as ever. 

Her turtleneck is as dark as her hair. Her eyes are as blue as the sapphire bracelet on her right arm. At least he’s not wearing his Superman pajamas this time. 

”You’re not supposed to be here, Kat,” he breathes, and she laughs. 

”Had to say thank you, didn’t I?” She raises her wrist to the dawn light, admiring the way the sapphires shine. They’re worth every dollar—and there had been quite a few of those—he had paid for them. “It’s funny, though; usually you’re supposed to get gifts on your birthday, not give them away.” 

”You mean that’s not part of thief culture?” He manages a chuckle. “Kill Uncle Eddie for me. That’s what he told me before I left.” 

“Mmm,” says Kat reaches for him, lips brushing against his neck a little aimlessly before they find a new, and far more exciting, purpose. 

On his twenty-first birthday, W.W.Hale receives a sports car, a state-of-the-art security system, a full suit of scuba gear, and a kiss from Kat Bishop. That last one is his favorite. 

* * *

It would have nice if things could have stayed that way. Unfortunately they rarely do, and in this case, a set of pearls and a fourteen-year-old boy’s memory guaranteed they wouldn’t. 

* * *

Which is why, three hours after a particularly scandalous dance with the Comtessa di Montefeltro, Hale is sitting in the rain on a rooftop across the Albright Museum. He would have thought it wasn’t her style, but even after all these years, Kat can still surprise him. He sees a lattice of wires from another building that could easily be used to enter through the third-story window. He sees a poorly monitored staircase in the back, likely with a rusty lock he could easily pick. He sees a raincoat-clad figure racing up the front stairs of the museum before it closes for the night. 

He hears the squelch of another person coming down to sit beside him. 

”W.W.Hale,” Kat’s deadpan voice is a counterpoint to the rain, “tireless defender of the city. You know what? Don’t tell me, I’ve figured it out. It’s _Workaholic_ , isn’t it?” 

Hale forces a chuckle. “My parents weren’t cruel enough to saddle me with that, I’m afraid. Through clearly you are.” 

“Wiseass.” 

“Not that one, either.” 

Kat sighs and rests her head on his shoulder. “They’re displaying a Rembrandt, you know.” 

“I wondered. But Kat Bishop isn’t stupid enough to walk into town just for something like that.” 

She laughs. “And maybe they’re sitting on a Vermeer their historians just haven’t authenticated yet. I think I might speed up the process a bit.” 

Even after all these years, his pulse races. Addictions don’t die easy for Hales, and he’s still not sure if his own addiction is to burglary, or to Kat. Either way, it’s not something that goes along with his self-appointed mission. 

The city—and the world—is full of crooks. Hale knows that now, having been on the side of seedy crime in the art-stealing underworld, and the seedier crime he conducts in his boardrooms. There are more than enough concerned individuals, whether law enforcement or otherwise, who want to stop it. 

He says: “Kat, you can’t—I can’t—“ 

And she buries her face against his chest. “I’d stop for you, you know” she mumbles. “I’ll quit if you will.” 

But as far as he knows, he’s the only one who thinks like the criminals themselves, who knows how to stop it before it cascades into pearls and orphans. That makes it his job. 

He says nothing. Kat sits with him until Simon signals from the top floor of the museum, and then she disappears into the night. 

He gives her five minutes’ head start. 

* * *

He catches up with her on Twenty-Sixth Avenue. She freezes long enough for him to realize she doesn’t have the painting with her after all—she must have slipped it to Simon when he wasn’t looking—and then she blows him a kiss and escapes down a fire escape. 

It’s not the best night. 

* * *

At five that morning, he’s only just going to sleep. But that is understandable; billionaires, and vigilantes, are entitled to unusual hours. There’s a rattle at the window, and then a rustle on the other side of the sheets, and Kat curls up next to him. 

“Hi,” she says, and yawns. Her hair is messy; her eyes are enormous in her face. 

“Hello,” says Hale, and doesn’t bother telling her she’s not supposed to be here. He already knows she is.

Tomorrow night he'll track her down, and return the Vermeer to where it's meant to be--but now, in the morning light, they can rest.

**Author's Note:**

> The first line of the story is, of course, lifted straight from _Heist Society_. The title is based on one of Selina Kyle's quotes from _The Dark Knight Rises_. Paperclipbitch, I am so sorry, but I _could not resist_ surprising you with a Batman/Heist Society fusion, particularly when you prompted it. I really hope you like this!


End file.
